


The Curious Incident

by archea2



Series: The Reason for the Unreason [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock sees Lestrade limping slightly and comes to a highly-upsetting conclusion..."</p><p>Eventhorizon451's prompt, filled to celebrate Gravesgiving Day on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident

Sherlock’s lips are pinched into a thin line when he walks off into the bathroom, having first grounded Greg to the sofa. Where Greg lifts each cushion between a wary thumb and finger: an old habit, that, dating back to the hard day’s night when he’d flumped onto his sofa, closed his eyes and rested his cheek on a soft, fluffy and very dead gosling.

The lips are a thin  _white_  line when Sherlock reappears. Armed with cotton balls, antibacterial solution (Greg's contribution after the gosling incident), a bottle filled with something dark yellow and ominous-looking, a syringe, and a longer face than even Sherlock’s genetics warrant. 

Greg grabs his hand before it can yank up his shirt. “Wha’d’you think you’re doing?”

"Rabies," he is answered curtly. "I'm going to inject your stomach and it’s going to be horribly painful. And we're going to do this every day for a week, and let this be a lesson to you about who you run into the next time." Sherlock looks into Greg’s incredulous eyes and sighs. "Oh, all right. The dog is healthy and, from all available data, well-cared for - although he could do with a dryer diet. When is he coming?"

“Who?” Sherlock’s glum tones are beginning to grate. Greg came home for a lie-in and a cuddle, not a lecture on pet hygienics. “The dog?”

"It’s Sunday," Sherlock replies with a painful attempt at desultory. Greg has heard better performances from a five-year old - his eldest - with his hand in the biscuit jar.

"Yeah, well spotted, you. And?"

"Slight but perceptible limp. Your leg is unhurt since you managed the stairs, but you’ve taken off your sock and applied your handkerchief to your ankle, where it makes a bulge." Sherlock points to the evidence as he sits down and lifts Greg’s foot gently before tucking it on his lap. "You’re wearing a tie, therefore you’ve been to hear your sky therapist, sorry, your vicar at chapel. Father Victor keeps his Jack Russell locked in the sacristy, which always makes it frisky and disgustingly eager to socialize with the parishioners. The dog bit you, and Father Victor…"

"Sherlock, what are you -"

"…offered to keep up your spirits by calling on you every day. He is a well-toned, well-shaped sports fiend," Sherlock recites lugubriously, "prone to slipping an Arsenal joke in his sermons. Freshly returned from India, where he acquired his comely tan by carrying on high-risk missionary work." A pause, so Sherlock can embrace his fate and refill his lungs. "Oh, and he's been through a family tragedy, too. Where shall I send your toothbrush?"

“ _Sherlock_.”

"I’ll be all right," Sherlock says, every inch the understanding martyr. "I’ll still have the Work, if you're amenable to shared custody. Though it might be less painful if we stopped seeing each other for a while, Greg. But I’ll…I’ll do the honorable thing, promise:  _I’ll send Mycroft in as a temp_.”

And that does it. Greg, with a pointed groan, struggles up into a sitting position and bunches up his trouser leg, pushing his sock down with a grimace. Then whips out his hankie.

"…Like what you see?" he asks coyly after a few seconds have run their course. "You know, in the old days they’d have called me a shameless trollop, showing my ankle to a pure-hearted lad."

"There’s no bite mark," comes at last in hesitant, blatantly relieved tones. "The dog - "

"Yeah, rather a case of what the dog didn’t do. I slipped on the church steps, you clotpole, and gave my ankle a twist. So I skipped mass entirely and just hobbled home. Now are you, or aren’t you, going to kiss me better?"

The pure-hearted lad scowls as long as it takes to kick the syringe under the couch and go fetch a band-aid. These he drops bang into Greg’s lap, then pushes on Greg’s uninjured shoulders until there is room enough for his long form on the sofa.

At least he’s no longer tight-lipped, as Greg has every opportunity to check. Between hushed laughter and faux scolding and true reassurance, and a moment before Mrs Hudson knocks at their door with a little pick-me-up - for two, clever Mrs H.


End file.
